


A Matter of Vocabulary

by apliddell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Courtship, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Poetry, Post-Canon, Walt Whitman - Freeform, they're together but they're still pining what's that called?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: The thing about love is that you have to teach yourself how to do it, even when you're an angel.





	A Matter of Vocabulary

“I’m afraid we’re closed,” Aziraphale’s murmur was all but drowned by the tinkling of the bell over his shop door. 

 

“‘S all right,” said Crowley cheerfully, “I don’t want to buy a book.” 

 

“Then I’ve no earthly idea why you’d come in. I was certain I’d locked that,” Aziraphale delicately turned a page of the book he was poring over at his desk in the back of the shop.  

 

“Oh you had, but I asked nicely, and the door’s got a bit of a soft spot for me,” Crowley laid a fluffy bunch of pink peonies on the desk next to Aziraphale. 

 

Aziraphale glanced at them and brought a hand to his chin to tuck a smile down his sleeve for safekeeping, “I believe there’s a vase at the front, but you’ll have to provide the water if you don’t mind.” 

 

Crowley sauntered to the front of the shop and found a dusty vase on a shelf behind the counter. He wiped away the dust and gave the vase a little tap with his fingernail. The vase filled itself obligingly with water, “Ooh, bit less, please. Room for the flowers.” The water level diminished slightly. “Much obliged.” 

 

Crowley returned to Aziraphale’s desk and arranged the flowers in the vase. Aziraphale kept his head bowed over his book, but he watched out of the corner of his eye, the smile he’d saved returning sooner than expected. 

 

His task finished, Crowley propped himself against the desk, “What’re you up to, Angel?” 

 

“Reading, dear,” with the merest, most delicate whiff of sarcasm. 

 

Crowley prodded the underside of the book to raise it slightly off the desk and craned his head down to read the title, “‘ _The Collected Works_ _of Walt Whitman_.’”

 

“Mmm.” 

 

“He rather got on my nerves. Always getting Fitzgerald so wound up.” There was a little stack of books sitting next to Aziraphale on the desk. Crowley picked it up and sorted through the books, “I’m sensing a theme.”

 

Aziraphale looked up from his book, holding his place with one finger, “Are you?”

 

“Austen, Bronte, Wilde. Bit of a thing for the nineteenth century, mmm?” He set the books down.

 

“I miss the nineteenth century. It suited me.” 

 

Crowley cocked his head thoughtfully, “The fashion suited you. But I think this century has its advantages.” 

 

Aziraphale smiled, “It does.”

 

Crowley had to look away quickly and clear his throat, “There is a theme, though. Isn’t there?”

 

“Just a bit of. Research,” Aziraphale drew the vase to him and sniffed the peonies. 

 

Crowley drummed his fingers against his knee, trying to think how to speak his thoughts properly, “I don’t think you really need-” He paused and tried again, “What have you learned in your research, Angel?”

 

“I’m not. This isn’t what I’m meant for!” Aziraphale’s voice had a little note of pleading creeping into it. “Angelic love is  _ agape _ , you know. Grand. Godly. Condescending. I wasn’t intended to indulge in anything so. Personal. I. I’m learning, Crowley. I’m trying to get my legs under me,” he ducked his head and buried his pinking face in the peonies. “It’s a matter of vocabulary not of. Of.” He blushed brighter and finished in a whisper, “Ardour.” 

 

If Crowley hadn’t been seated, he’d’ve fallen over. He considered falling over anyway out of principle. He took off his shades and pocketed them, “Aziraphale, I think we’re both. Crawling about, looking for our legs.” 

 

Aziraphale looked up from the flowers, “These are lovely. Thank you.”

 

“I’m glad you like them.” 

 

Aziraphale looked round a little distractedly, “I haven’t offered you a chair, have I? Oh dear, where is my head today? Won’t you sit?”

 

Crowley happened to know that the only other chair in the shop was the stool behind the counter, as Aziraphale felt chairs would encourage lingering from the customers, but he hopped off the edge of Aziraphale’s desk and sank into an armchair that certainly hadn’t been there a moment ago. 

 

He leaned in to peep at Aziraphale’s book again, “Is Whitman helping?”

 

“I think so,” said Aziraphale bashfully. “Shall I just read a bit to you?” 

 

“Please.”

 

Aziraphale pushed his spectacles up his nose and began in a warm, gentle tone that rather made Crowley think of a dove’s voice, “To a Stranger from  _ Calamus _ by Whitman. 

_ “‘Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I  _

_ look upon you, _

_ You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking,  _

_ (it comes to me, as of a dream,) _

_ I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you…’” _

 

Crowley knew the verse in question was only a dozen lines or so, but he felt like he listened for a long time. They let a small silence bloom between them when Aziraphale reached the end. 

 

“Not wholly unprecedented,” Aziraphale said quietly. “In essence.” 

 

“No,” said Crowley feeling that some sort of affectionate touching was in order but unsure of how to bring it about. He decided he’d best study up some as well. He cleared his throat, “Mind if I read with you, Angel?”

 

Aziraphale smiled, “Not at all, my dear.” 

 

Crowley took the top book off Aziraphale’s little pile-- _ Pride and Prejudice _ \--and settled back into his seat. His knee was pressed to Aziraphale’s knee under the desk, but neither of them withdrew. 

 

“I liked that one,” said Aziraphale approvingly, taking another whiff of his peonies. 

 

“Ah. Good,” said Crowley. 

 

And then there was silence in the room again, but for the ticking of the clock and the occasional whisper of turning pages. 


End file.
